


4: On a date

by GraciousK



Series: 30-day OTP Challenge: Johnlock [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arguing, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, First Date, John is slow on the uptake, M/M, Swearing, making fun of Anderson, the one with the spots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraciousK/pseuds/GraciousK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets stood up for a date, and of course who shows up but Sherlock Holmes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	4: On a date

**Author's Note:**

> Writing for Day 4 in the [30 Day OTP Challenge](http://ericandy.tumblr.com/post/26596382488/ericandys-30-day-otp-challenge): "On a date".

John swallowed down the last ounce of his beer and sighed. He checked his phone. Twenty-five minutes, and still no sign of his date. No reply to his texts, either. _Spotty bitch,_ he thought, then chastised himself for thinking it. Being bitter wasn't going to help anything.

John slid his phone open and composed a text: "Guess the date is off. Is it something I said? Call me plz." After thinking for a moment, he deleted the last three words and hit 'send'.

The bartender took his glass and set a full one down in its place. "Uh, sorry," John said. "Could I just get my tab?"

"This one's on me," the bartender said. "Sorry about your date."

It's not that John couldn't afford it, he just hadn't wanted a second drink. But he didn't feel like making a fuss, and it was a nice gesture. He smiled wanly. As the bartender walked away, John started a second text, this one to Sherlock. "Picking up chinese on the way home. Chicken or beef?" Then he put his phone away and went back to his sulking and his beer.

The beer was finished and John was counting out cash when a familiar deep voice said, "Sorry I'm late."

John turned to fix Sherlock with an exasperated gaze. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock stood rigid, his hands clasped behind his back. "Meeting a friend for dinner."

 _Right, and you coincidentally ended up in the same pub as me?_ Before John could voice his thoughts, Sherlock brought his left hand from behind his back, extending a single long-stemmed rose towards John.

John puzzled at it. Then he puzzled at Sherlock. _What?_

"We got more fan mail today," Sherlock said, distaste clear in his face. John raised his eyebrows - _Okay, whatever_ \- and took the rose. "There's eleven more back at the flat," he remarked, undoing his outer layers and folding them neatly onto the back of the adjacent stool. "And an extraordinarily tedious letter." Sherlock's gaze caught on something behind John - the bartender - and Sherlock said, "A menu, please."

John set down the rose, realizing. "You're here to have dinner with me."

Sherlock sat. "Isn't that what I said?" he asked pointedly.

John wasn't sure how to answer, so he didn't. He put the cash back in his wallet, and the wallet back in his pocket. The bartender brought the menu. Sherlock scanned it quickly, then ordered a pint and some pasties. He handed the menu back with a not-very-convincing smile.

John stirred, a bit uncomfortable. "Why-"

"You'd been stood up, and you're hungry. I'd rather eat out than in. And you'll go all," Sherlock waved his hand and crinkled his nose, "distressed if I don't eat anything."

John had stopped paying attention at _You'd been stood up_. "And how do you know that?" John asked, his tone edged with heat.

"You have quite a history of badgering me about my eating habits."

"Not what I meant." _What, did she have an indentation on her left shoe that screams 'flaky bint' to the trained eye? Does she have another boyfriend in Brixton that she's seeing tonight?_ He braced himself for the unpleasant revelations surely about to pour out of Sherlock's know-it-all mouth.

Sherlock turned a few degrees, fixing his gaze on John. "You left the flat just over forty minutes ago wearing those shoes and that shirt. A date, clearly. You hadn't eaten before you left - a dinner date, then. Left for a dinner date, half an hour later coming home with takeaway? It's not a difficult deduction."

"Right," John said. _See? Being bitter, not helping anything. She's not a bint. And she's not cheating. She's probably not even flaky. Something just came up. And Sherlock's just... Sherlock._

The bartender set the pint in front of Sherlock, who in turn set it in front of John. "It's on me. Keep it open." Sherlock handed the bartender his bank card with an even less convincing smile.

"I don't need another drink."

"You've been stood up, and you're clearly in a bad mood. Isn't buying someone a drink considered a friendly gesture?"

John turned to his pint, swallowing his protests. He was indeed in a bad mood, and taking it out on Sherlock. This would be his third in an hour, and on an empty stomach too. _Liquid dinner,_ Harry would call it. Still, a friendly gesture from Sherlock was a rare treat. "I'm not sure whether to be flattered or concerned," said John, pulling the pint closer to him.

"It's not spiked, if that's what concerns you."

John laughed, then took a sip. "Good to know."

The two men discussed the details of the most recent case. That is, Sherlock talked about how he solved it, and John was the adoring audience. Thanks to the beer, John found that he couldn't follow Sherlock's more complex bits of logic. He nodded along anyway and made impressed noises at the appropriate time. At some point the food arrived, and both tucked in. When John's beer ran out, he ordered two more pints, drawing a stare and a crooked eyebrow from his flatmate.

"You know I don't drink."

"Do I?" John grinned.

"Have you ever seen me drink?" Sherlock paused, shooting John a condescending look that said _Obviously not_. "It interferes with my thinking."

"There's no case on, what's the point? It's better than sitting at home reading love letters, isn't it? This round's on me."

"Oh, please," Sherlock spat, rolling his eyes.

John let out a clipped sigh. "Is it a sin to want a night out? A couple rounds with a friend? I've been stood up, remember. Humor me."

The bartender sat two pints, one in front of each man. Sherlock contemplated his pint, exhaling in a slow, controlled breath. Eventually he lifted the glass to his lips.

"Thank you," John said, then took a sip himself. He set the glass down after that sip, but Sherlock drank deep. Sherlock's glass was half-empty when he set it down.

"No need to rush," John said, smiling. Sherlock's eyebrows flicked up briefly in response. He reached out for his glass again, took a single gulp, and set it down. The silence was becoming uncomfortable. Sherlock glanced up at John, then back at his drink, his expression inscrutable. Finally, John spoke. "Problem?"

"I don't see the point."

"Of?"

"Drinking slowly."

"Do you not like the taste of beer, then?" It was an attempt at a friendly question, asked in a light tone. Sherlock's response was brittle.

"I don't see the point in delaying the onset of peak effects."

"There is such a thing as savoring your drink." John demonstrated, taking a swig.

"Not sure why I'd want to 'savor' the cheapest lager on tap, but if you insist," Sherlock said, raising his glass to his lips once more. He took a slow sip, his face blank.

"Alright," John said, suppressing his irritation, "next round you pick, something worth savoring."

"Finding such a thing here is doubtful."

"Jesus, Sherlock," John exclaimed, a little too loud. He reined himself in a bit. "Could you try not to be so difficult, for one night?" Sherlock's mouth tightened, and John immediately regretted snapping at him. "Sorry. I'm sorry." John filled his mouth with beer, to prevent himself from saying anything else. _Fuck it,_ he thought, and drained his glass. A few drops dribbled down his chin. John set the pint down and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Sherlock was staring at him. _Fuck it._ "Go on, drink your damn drink."

Sherlock hesitated, then emptied the pint, keeping his gaze fixed on John. When he was done, Sherlock set his glass down gingerly. "I'm making things worse," he observed.

"So'm I," John countered, and a smile broke across his face. "Sorry, I'm... pissed. 'Scuse me." John want to the toilet and relieved his full bladder. When he returned to his seat, there was a tumbler of whisky and a glass of water waiting for him. Sherlock held a second tumbler of whisky and watched John seat himself without comment.

"I don't know if this is a good idea," John said, grasping the glass. "Beer before liquor, and all that."

"You said I could pick," Sherlock said, almost petulant. "It received very favorable reviews." John bit back an irritated reply and sniffed his drink. It smelled like burnt caramel. He tasted it.

Sherlock continued, "If you don't like it-"

"No," John interrupted him. "It's fine, it's... good." John tasted it again. "Very good." _Very strong. Probably also very expensive._

John alternated gulps of water with sips of whisky. The bartender refilled his water and brought the check back, with Sherlock's card.

"You didn't have to pay for me," John protested.

"Yes, well, if I did then it wouldn't be as nice of me, would it?"

They drank in silence for a moment.

"This one isn't spiked either, right?" John asked. Sherlock's eyes met his, an almost hurt expression on his face... until he saw John's smile. Then Sherlock's eyes crinkled around the edges, and one corner of his lips pulled up in something approximating a smile.

"How ever do you put up with me," Sherlock quipped.

"You're paying, that helps." John slouched back in his stool, rotating to face his flatmate. He held the half-empty tumbler up, as if in a toast. "Fifth or sixth drink of the night, that helps too."

Sherlock contemplated this while swirling the amber liquid in his tumbler. "Wonder if that'd work on Anderson," he said.

"Which one of you'd be drunk, you or him?" John asked, beginning to smile.

"Oh, him, obviously. If drinking caused me to find people less irritating, I'd never stop," Sherlock said, and now both of them were smiling.

"Nope, wouldn't work," John said, mock-serious. "Alcohol makes people honest, and Anderson honestly thinks you're a twat." The two of them shared a look, which turned into a laugh. Sherlock downed the last swallow of his drink and rose. "Be right back. Finish your drink."

John watched Sherlock go into the lavatory, just to make sure he wasn't going to leave him stranded. Not that he'd really be stranded; 221B was just round the corner. But still, it wouldn't be unusual. He turned back to his drink and followed his standing orders. Sherlock had impeccably good taste in liquor. _'Course he does, have you seen the way he dresses? All fancy shirts and high collars._ John smiled, realizing that the 'science of deduction' was rubbing off on him. It's a connection he wouldn't have thought to make before he'd met the world's only consulting detective.

The bartender picked up the signed check and said, "Glad to see your date finally turned up. Good evening." The bartender was off before John could interject a correction.

"I'm not gay," John said to his glass of whisky.

"Does it matter?" John startled slightly; Sherlock's voice could cut glass.

"What?" John turned. Sherlock was putting on his coat.

"Your heterosexuality, John. I don't see how that's relevant." Sherlock fastened his scarf as John stood. "I brought you flowers, I bought you a drink, I paid for your meal. It meets all of the criteria."

John reeled. "No, Sherlock, it doesn't."

Sherlock inclined his head:  _Do elaborate_.

John put his coat on stiffly, his face reddening. "I don't have sex with men. Sherlock, we don't have sex." Sherlock stilled and his eyebrows knotted. His gaze flicked across John's face, down his body, and back up to his face. Realization hit John like ice water. "No, Sherlock, that wasn't... I wasn't complaining, I was just... saying. You and I, we're not..." The words wouldn't come.

"Pity," Sherlock interjected.

John blinked at him, at a loss for words.

"Well, it's not too much of a loss," Sherlock said, a smile teasing his lips. "You're still coming home with me."

Something Sherlock had said when they first met passed through his head, and it fit well enough for John to repeat. "Do you know you're doing that out loud?"

"I thought you'd said it was 'all fine'," Sherlock said, mimicking John's tone of voice. When John didn't respond immediately, Sherlock swallowed. "Must be the alcohol," Sherlock said, an exaggeratedly polite smile twisting his face. "Ignore me. Shall we?" He turned to the door.

John followed, thinking.  Since when did Sherlock flirt? Had he been joking? He might be joking. He _must_  have been be joking.

Sherlock did have a point though; that dinner was suspiciously date-like. Flowers, drinks, dinner. _Alright. Fine. It was a date, then. That's fine, it's all fine, really. Whatever. It doesn't mean anything, anyway._ John glanced over at Sherlock as they walked, studying the angles of his profile. But it did mean something, didn't it? _I was sad and lonely and stood up, and he took me out on a date._ The thought sat surprisingly well with John, now that he'd had time to turn it over in his head.

 _Sherlock Holmes,_  thought John, _the closest thing I can manage to a relationship._ It shouldn't have been, but somehow it was perfectly fine.

Sherlock noticed John watching him, and favored him with a brief, crooked smile.  John smiled back at the impossible man, whose gestures of affection were rarer than gemstones.   _Perfectly fine._


End file.
